Context: Valley Candle, The Wind Shifts

There are a couple contexts I'd like to conjure for a couple Harmonium poems.

Valley Candle
My candle burned alone in an immense valley.
Beams of the huge night converged upon it,
Until the wind blew.
Then beams of the huge night
Converged upon its image,
Until the wind blew.

My page is not white, not all white, it is gray given the amount of words, a manifestation of ink. My page becomes brighter and brighter from all of the gleaming blackness filling the emptiness. The keys trigger that trigger and that that and hereafter wherever my pages goes, until discontent hits. Suddenly my page is whitening and darkens. The lack of black from the gust of backspacing blows the content off the page from the hit of discontent. There's no going back because the winded anxieties are chaotic. Then, thoughts for the page are spotted not so far off. The light in the darkness is just bright enough and I start to write. I start to write and my page is not white, not all white, it is gray again. But for how long? The wind is picking up again.

The Wind Shifts
This is how the wind shifts:
Like the thoughts of an old human,
Who still thinks eagerly
And despairingly.
The wind shifts like this:
Like a human without illusions,
Who still feels irrational things within her.
The wind shifts like this:
Like humans approaching proudly,
Like humans approaching angrily.
This is how the wind shifts:
Like a human, heavy and heavy,
Who does not care.

I see all generations present, and I see city hall. The people who show are of so few kinds and their minds are not much hidden behind blinds, except by the weighty apathetic one sitting in a street-side chair, unsettled in his comfort yet not willing to move inside the building and unseat his stilling.
Although those heading to the polls are set in their choice, they've got to be quiet with their voice. They hint with an ever-changing draft; east, west, north, south, and all else in-between, inside, the civilized, the wild, and out. I can see them all walking off the walls, each face is placed upon the lot of many illusory bodies. People are repeated and seen in passing or as their seated.
We see those approaching the polls, the grimacing grouches follow patiently the broad-shouldered stiff-upper-lippy patriots, and each are encroaching their opinion as politicians poaching the state's supposed, shared dominion.
Then, as we'll find last, in the corners surrounding there are the old-timers believing in a reemerging youth, unconvinced by past-times' truths because like their yellow and white-dusted lawns in November, can they really believe that the pawns can behold a movement unforeseen?
Let's see which way the wind shifts...